Weakness
by Beguile the Time
Summary: In his fright, a five year old Draco Malfoy runs to his parents for comfort. Features young!Draco, nice!Lucius and a battle of the wits.


**Author's notes:** Credit goes to **hazel for the plot bunny. I don't own the Malfoy family either, though I sometimes wish I did. And thanks to **Moirae** for beta-ing. Constructive criticism please?**

*__

_CRACK!_

Thunder and lightning burst through the air like a whip; not the low rumbles of most thunder, but a sharper kind, piercing the sky as stridently as the bright bolts of lightning that followed. 

With each bolt of electricity, Draco Malfoy's room lit up, filling it with shadows, the room itself becoming so much more ominous, so much larger, threatening to swallow the five year old whole. 

When darkness returned, however, Draco was even more frightened; he could have sworn that he had just seen the armoire move. And considering the Dark artifacts strewn about the house, that wouldn't have been too unlikely. 

Again the room lit up, and again, thunder cracked in the sky, and try as he might to sink lower under the blankets, he couldn't do so without completely covering himself in them. And Draco wanted to be alert.

So he stared, wide eyed around the room, jumping every time he heard thunder and his heart beating a little bit faster for that split second of illumination, feeling, _knowing_ that he was being watched. By the walls, maybe, perhaps they were sprouting eyes, or… that chair! He was sure it moved… yes, it definitely moved… 

Draco shrank back, white-blond hair falling around his face and partially veiling his eyes. He didn't even think about it when the next burst of thunder came; he jumped out of the bed and ran; ran to the first place he could think of. 

His parents' room. 

His parents; he had never once seen them afraid. In fact, he'd never seen them show much emotion, aside from occasional doting on him, or in some cases, irritation. They were like statues. Flawless, always calm, yet rigid and cold. However, tonight, Draco sought comfort in them, hoped that perhaps, their placidity would calm him as well. 

He ran down the hallway, feet cold against a mahogany floor that shined against the walls of the same polished wood. He ran past the landing of the stairs, feeling that he could never go fast enough; never escape the eyes in portraits that stared at him quizzically, or the severed and decaying body parts mounted in glass cases. He reached another staircase and ran up it, scrambling to keep hold of the banister, lest he fall and become prey to the objects that stared, that reached for him. He cast a glance behind him, and was sure he saw a shadow move.

Finally, breathing hard so as to catch a breath of air, he reached his parents' room. The door had been left open, just a crack, and Draco tentatively pushed it wider so he could enter.

It was like another world; positively reeking of Slytherin.

Slytherin, after all, was not just the name of a house or a historical figure. It was a noun, an adjective, a verb. It followed you, even after you left school; in some circles it was an insult, and in others, the highest compliment you could ever wish to receive. You held to it, because it became a part of who you are, and who you are meant to be.

Draco wasn't exactly aware of all that yet, but even at that young age, he knew that he was going to be a Slytherin. It wasn't a question of wanting or expectations or possibilities, he _knew._

Stepping into the green-carpeted room, Draco quickly noted that his parents weren't in there. Two doors on each side of the room indicated where they most likely were—on one side, a door leading to his mother's boudoir, closet and bathroom, and the door on the other side leading to the same elements of his father's personal quarters. However, the rooms joined here, where a king sized bed sat, draped with a dark green canopy. 

Thunder and lightning boomed through the sky once more, and a startled Draco scuttled into his mother's boudoir, where she sat before a mirror, dressed in a long, black silk nightgown. 

She looked surprised at seeing Draco.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, not unkindly, but not in the most sympathetic tone either. 

Draco stepped forward and grabbed hold of her arm. "I was scared," he said quietly, ashamedly. 

Narcissa pried his fingers from her arm and fixed her hair, smoothing down a few flyaway strands. "Of what?" she asked, still staring at her pearly white reflection. 

Draco opened his mouth, but no cohesive words came out. It was only a rushed, mumbled mutter of, "Thunder… moving... eyes…" and a slightly frustrated sigh that he couldn't aptly express the source of his fear. 

His mother waved her hand dismissively. "Don't be ridiculous," she said, standing and moving through her expansive closet and into her bathroom. "Now go back to bed," she called, closing the door, leaving Draco to trudge back into the bedroom, uncomforted, hanging his head. 

"Draco?" spoke his father's voice, and the boy lifted his head to see Lucius Malfoy sitting on the bed. "What were you doing in there?"

He was about to speak, but the sound of thunder startled him so much that a poorly stifled squeal was all that escaped. Lucius chuckled, leaning back against the vast headboard, a book open on his lap, which he closed and put on the bedside table. 

"Come now, don't tell me you're scared of the storm?" 

Draco whimpered slightly, and, with a pleading look to Lucius, climbed onto the high bed. Lucius looked nothing but amused, but did not berate his son. 

"It's not going to hurt you," he said simply, watching Draco crawl across the bed, over to Lucius. 

"It's scary." Draco frowned, and situated himself next to his father, relaxing a bit when Lucius' thin arm was put around his shoulders. 

"Go to sleep," Lucius advised, but it wasn't in the same, commanding way that Narcissa had said it. "And when you wake up it will be gone." 

Draco looked up at his father, hair falling into his face, closing his eyes as Lucius brushed it away. "Okay," he murmured, falling back into a half sitting, half lying down position and closing his eyes, taking a big breath of air. Dad would protect him, he rationalized. There was nothing that he couldn't do, and Draco was sure that as long as he was in this room, this room of serpent engravings and green velvet bed hangings, where his parents, who never showed a moment of weakness, were, he would be safe. 

A few minutes after Draco had fallen asleep, Narcissa entered the room. She rolled her eyes at the sight of her son, whose head had now drooped onto Lucius' shoulder. However, her glare was directed at Lucius, to whom she said, "What's he still doing here? I told him to go back to his room." 

Lucius shook his head, a dry smirk appearing on his face. "Yes, I figured you would have said that. Apparently seeing your son scared out of his wits had no affect on you." 

"He's just being whiny," she said in exasperation, "And _you're doing nothing but catering to his childish needs—" _

"Of course he's childish! For Merlin's sake, he's five years old!" 

"Well then get him chocolates or something to make him feel better, don't bring him up to be a co-dependent pansy!" 

He death-glared her. "No son of mine will be a pansy. But unless _you_ want your son to grow up to be an emotional train wreck, then we have to—how did you put it?—'cater to his childish needs'."

Narcissa pointed an accusing finger at him. "You're just growing soft! Is the old age getting to you, Luci darling?" 

"Oh, so now we've reverted to personal insults and degrading nicknames? Really Narcissa, I thought you had more class than that." 

She made a frustrated sound. "Will you just get him _out? I don't plan on sleeping on the couch! And he is __not sleeping with us." _

After a moment, Lucius admitted defeat—he knew well enough that continuing the argument with Narcissa would be a dangerous venture, especially when it might involve depriving her of her beauty sleep. He slid off the bed. Noticing his pause, his wife said with a dismissive wave of her hand, "You can levitate him there or something. Carrying him would be so… _plebeian_." 

"Very true," said Lucius, reaching for his wand (which was on the nightstand) and lifting Draco into the air. Carefully, he directed his son's body to the door and followed it out, walking a ways down the hall. Once he was far enough from the room, he put his arms under Draco and carried him the rest of the way. 


End file.
